Everything but the Kitchen Sink

I think 
I’ll start in Wildling Wood, 
believing in magic and creaky swings. 

Here there be dragons, 
and wander worlds and infinite 
blanks and daisy chains. 

And then 
(thought caught), 
I’ll ponder over rum
-bled phrase, how many 
princesses 
chickens 
rumpled names 
it takes to start a revolution (late).

Silly goose. 
We’ll switch giggles to 5, 
guffaws at 8 and all midnight
ball aubades walking on eggshells
shall be cancelled. 

We’ll rage quit and wear green
-blue gowns and laugh in flowers
and murmur things like  
there’s no place like home 
save me 
fill me, quill me 
blank(et) me 
muse me  
in our sleep. 

Ever, after 
we’ll ask 
Orion     Alice      ungracious ghosts 
whether love be a day 
or just a smallish dragon in disguise. 

We’re fresh out 
of white rabbits and foresight
Neverland skyscrapers and lamps, 
but we’ve got stories of wolves
and snow and sea. 

See, 
(long story short), we
are slipper-cloud origin stories, 
rear windows facing murder. 

This particular poem 
is the sacred language of dawn 
that copper taste in disappointed mouth 
all falling stars and pennies. 

It’s got us sentencing the moon
convicted of our secret shenanigans 
(though the dragons really did it) 
for 13 summers and 17 long lost syllables. 

Get this: 
to someone important (punnery notwithstanding),
lady I swear by all flowers 
this luna
-see persona’s gone down the john.

Suddenly (by way of introduction), 
a rogue poem. The grimace of a masked 
and fractured moon. The altered state of 
spare change gone too soon. 

The first stone’s thrown
(Act I), and we can run or sigh 
language our way, writing in airports 
our smallish dreams. 

It seems we may have bimbled 
our anthropology, but it’s simple 
really: give me a pretty how town 
(a place to sink or swim) 
and I am 
home. 

::

PAD, day 28. If you’ve been around the PAD challenge for any length of time, you know there’s always a “remix” day. So this is the one with all the titles. Mostly in order, backwards.

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